


Special Little Goldfish

by xikra1648



Series: Goldfish [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Happy Ending, Kidnapped Reader, Near Death Experiences, Serial Killer, Sister!Reader, brother!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 11:18:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xikra1648/pseuds/xikra1648
Summary: You were curious about the legendary Sherlock Holmes before your brother became his flatmate.  Seeing as you were soon to be transferred to work with Detective Inspector Lestrade you had to be curious.  You officially met over the investigation of a serial killer called The Painter, a particularly strange and fascinating killer-though that opinion was one shared by only you and Sherlock.  It was clear to Sherlock, a man surrounded by goldfish, that you were particularly special.  You were a special little goldfish.That was also clear to the serial killer you were chasing, a psychopath that happened to be obsessed with you.





	Special Little Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't know guys. I still don't know.
> 
> The serial killer, Patrick Clemens a.k.a. The Painter is a returning character. He's also a pretty sick fuck. He basically picks a married couple, kills the husband, kidnaps the wife then kills her and well...he's a necrophiliac so he does the do with the wife's dead body. Lucky girl the reader is, she caught the attention of this particular psychopath.
> 
> ...Sorry...

# Goldfish

### Special Little Goldfish

 

_Goldfish._

That’s what you were to him: a goldfish.

You were a special goldfish, a territorial and beautiful one with one _hell_ of a mean side, like those colorful Betas at the pet store.  You were certainly smarter than the average goldfish, but you were a goldfish nonetheless.  A beautiful, kind, protective, patient goldfish that _terrified_ Sherlock to his very core.

You not only created the spark that brought emotions he had long since shut away back to life, but stoked the sparks into a raging inferno with every breath you took.  You were his undoing, but that wasn’t what really terrified him.  What really scared him was the fact that his undoing _didn’t_ scare him.  He _looked forward_ to it, longed for it, _wanted_ it.

You first met at a crime scene, shortly after you were transferred to work under Lestrade, having previously worked on cold cases, and only a matter of weeks after John and Sherlock moved to 221B Baker Street.  Sherlock immediately recognized you from John’s photographs, you were the sister John remained close to, the baby sister he was overprotective of.  That would explain why John insisted that not _all_ of the Yard was incompetent.  You were a bit older than in the photograph, it was taken before John left for Afghanistan, but it was definitely you.

You never judged Sherlock for a second, instead finding him impressive and brilliant, and chose to assist him and John in chasing down the serial killer.  Of all things Sherlock didn’t expect, you agreed that The Painter was a particularly _fascinating_ serial killer.  He was precise in his killing, medically trained, attacked couples and left the husband at the scene but took the wife elsewhere, but left a detailed portrait that _had_ to have been painted long before the initial attack itself.  The sickest part of it all, however, was when the wife was found she was always dead, and there was always evidence of rape that took place both before and _after_ she was murdered.

There wasn’t a real breakthrough in the case until The Painter made a mistake, but what none of you realized was it was made on purpose.  The three of you split up, which was your first mistake. You made your way to the basement of the empty flat The Painter rented, assuming all that would be there was the wife of the latest victim.  When you saw her already dead, you caught on too late, turning just in time to see the tire iron before it cracked you over the head.

You woke up to not just throbbing in your head, but in your hands.  You attempted to move them, but a piercing pain took over and caused you to scream, shocking you into consciousness that forced you to realize your hands hurt because there were knives pierced through them, pinning them to the floor. 

You were still dizzy but you were attempting to find your way out of trouble before The Painter straddled your waist, pinning you there as he twirled a third knife in his hand and teasingly trailed a paintbrush over your face and neck.  You were terrified, convinced you were going to die as the killer cooed over you, claiming to have loved you the moment he saw you in the paper before lightly trailing his knife over your neck before placing the wound that would create the scar that crossed over the left side of your collar bone to the swell of your right breast.  It was deep enough to leave a scar, but not enough to kill you.

That was when it happened, the killer was knocked off of you with the familiar sounds of gunfire as he was shot three or four times, before he was _actually_ pulled off of you.  You felt someone gently holding your wrist with one hand as the other gently pulled the knife from your palm, before moving to tend to your other hand.  You vaguely recognized Sherlock’s voice, your eyes squeezed shut as you felt him slowly and carefully pulling the small knives from your hands and wrapping them both tightly.  As tightly as he could before you launched yourself at him, clinging at his coat as you sobbed, curling into a ball and clinging to him as John knelt close by and rubbed your back and ran a comforting hand through your hair.  Only minutes later Lestrade, Donovan, and as many uniformed officers as the DI could manage rushed into the dark, dank basement.

That was when the emotionless wall Sherlock had built around himself began to shake, falling piece by piece as you and John brought out the part of Sherlock that had long since been buried.

You were a special little goldfish.


End file.
